


and westwardly decline

by Quillori



Category: Arthurian Mythology, The Fall of Arthur - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, WB: Guinever's Fay Magic (Fall of Arthur - Tolkien) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	and westwardly decline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



They are telling stories now, her husband's knights, each trying to best the other. How strong they are, how many they have killed, how brave and honourable and victorious, how deserving they are of her husband’s favour. And she sits beside him, perfect and golden, as still and elegant as a statue, watching and not speaking. What would she say? 

As to what she thinks: well, that is another matter.

/

It sounds fair in the mouth of a bard, but everything sounds sweet when well sung, truths covered over, drowned in honey. Years ago, in her father’s hall, there was always someone to sing, and not in the hall only: her nurse sang her to sleep, her mother sung as she wove, as she walked in the gardens, as she stroked her daughter’s hair. Guinevere sang to herself, sometimes, as she played: little songs of her own invention, her voice childish and untrained. Battles bright and brave, monsters overcome, ladies fair and heroes strong, everything brightly coloured and gay: that is the proper subject for music. It is moreover, as she realises now, a subject fit only for professional musicians, who have the trick of it, and know what parts to leave tactfully unsaid. There is wine spilt on the table, and everyone is speaking too loudly, faces flushed and tongues stumbling. Were these the men who did such great deeds? Were those deeds really worth such boasting?

In a little while she will murmur judicious praise, carefully measured, appropriate to each man’s standing, his worth in her husband’s eyes. They will lap it up eagerly, like dogs with the leavings when a feast is over.

/

It was spring when she went to Arthur, was sent to Arthur. The woods were green, and full of song, a carpet of wildflowers at her feet.

/

There are many great deeds, and it is hard on her, she thinks, to have to remember them all, call to mind who it was did what to whom, which city fell, how many dead. But her husband is a great leader, the light of the world, and naturally he has about him a court of heroes. Sometimes she listens to songs they sing of him, and it is a wonder to her she is married to such a shining man, a man so far beyond any mortal blame, a man she hardly recognises.

/

At least he doesn’t drink with his knights, at least he stays seated above them, sober and dignified. Doubtless this is wisdom, and restraint, and other virtues, with which he is overburdened. Doubtless it is generosity, too, and compassion, that he does not seem to see their faults, their petty rivalries and small vanities, the ways they fall short, so very short, of the songs sung in their names. He does not see her faults either, if she has any. But then he does not see her at all, only an appropriately beautiful wife, who speaks just as she should, and must surely act the likewise.

/

Sometimes, not often, she will see someone else look about with an eye like hers, withdrawn and considering, passing judgement in silence. Gawain at times, when he is not being the best of knights. One day he will be as others are, the next he will fall still and silent; he does not watch his fellow knights on those days, nor even his king. He looks at her, and the shadows lengthen, and the fire grows chill.

/

Gawain in the sunlight is a thing to behold, glowing with strength, the sun made flesh. Gawain in the dark is a thing of shadows, unreadable, something in his face that is hidden in the glare of daylight. He is uncanny then, disturbing in a way nothing has disturbed her for years, here in a court where all fey and heathen things are duly banished, and righteousness holds sway. She does not like to meet his eyes. But all the same she does not fear him. Gawain loves the daylight hours, his strength and pride of place, the acclaim of his fellows and approbation of his king. He does not wish to think, to know; if he were offered wisdom in a silver dish, he would turn his head away, refuse to eat the bitter seeds. He has made his choice, and it is for the bright day and the summer sun.

/

Lancelot is the same at any hour: the firelight gilds his skin not more not less than the noonday sun, and his eyes are free of shadows. He cares if he displeases her: for her he will pass the feasting by, tailor his conduct to her desires, make himself as like a hero as she could ask. Probably he would prefer to remain loyal to his king - it is the sort of thing he would care about - but he cares more for her, obedient in all things. He does not expect her to remain silent, nor will he ever judge her. She does not think he truly listens when she tells him of her childhood, of the greenwood and the songs her mother sang, of the way to call a fish to your hands or to make a stag pause in the open, awaiting the arrow, but the sound of her voice pleases him. When she tells him by what means they used to call the fruits to swell on the trees, a yearly burden, sweet and heavy (how they used to call the fruits, before such things were resigned to the will of god), he does not understand. He does not understand, but he hears that she likes fruits freshly picked, and he brings them for her, hopeful and uncomprehending as Arthur’s favourite dog after a hunt, waiting to be petted.

/

The days grow short, and summer turns to autumn. She has not seen wildflowers, she thinks, for many years. Do they grow the same, or have they withered away, unwanted, unvalued, easily forgotten?

/

That it should be Mordred she fears is strange, unexpected. There is no half-fey shadow in his eyes, no hint of power. He is not even the man her husband is, a man already half legend. But he says the world is changing, as the seasons change, and he is the wolf of winter, fierce in his hunger. A changing world, indeed: after so long in stillness it is almost a relief to run, although she has never been the prey before, never seen her own lands barren and hostile, full of fear. But winter gives way to spring. That is the way of things, eternal and unalterable. There could be another canopy of green, another wildflower bed, and she could be queen in truth as well as name. Let her only survive this winter, this season of cold and iron, where men fight for once without pretence of honour, without sweetness or lies, and then surely, surely all will be well. (Her thoughts, well trained, go where she tells them to go. If there is other wisdom, she does not wish to hear, to remember. She too has made her choice, walking into the world of men, the taste of sweet lies on her tongue.) 


End file.
